


Perverse Alchemy

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biology, Chemistry, Johnlock Roulette, Kinky, M/M, Porn, REDBEARD FEELS, Rimming, Scent Kink, Sherlock's a bit not right, biologically stubborn anus, graphic descriptions of John's arse, lots of porn, sometime post S3 (not specific)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love has a bizarre way of making the ordinary extraordinary,  especially if one has the acute senses of Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>(Gratuitous rimming porn lies ahead)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perverse Alchemy

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I don’t claim to have Sherlock’s senses. Cause I don’t. Wine tastes like wine, coffee tastes like coffee, roses smell like roses, and skin tastes like, well, skin. But we here in pornland are very good at enjoying the hell out of graphic description, so this story is a nod to that. Also, I think Sherlock has some...different...ideas about what appeals to his senses. Okay, guys. This is just an ode to John’s arse. Who am I kidding?
> 
> Thanks to BettySwallocks, my intrepid beta. I hope this still piques your interest. And to Fleetwood Mouse, who is a darling.

Perverse Alchemy

I tell people they are idiots quite frequently for not being able to observe what is obvious. Perhaps I am unfair (perhaps? ha!) because most people have allowed their senses to become dulled out of necessity. Humans, bombarded with noise, learn to tune out others’ conversations, the hum and buzz of city life. We dull our tongues with scalding coffee and too much salt, synthetic sweets. Vision weakens due to the impact of time, genetic factors, and the constant bombardment of UV light. Our olfactory receptor neurons, however, remain fairly acute, and if we simply paid more attention the signals they send us, we would be a finer species for it. 

John says I am simply gifted with sharper senses than most. That, and unusual intelligence. He may be right on both counts.

Perhaps I should get a dog. Would be handy at crime scenes, I suppose. John says I do enough inhalation of the evidence as it is and gets tetchy if I put my nose too close to something he deems dangerous or disease-ridden. Sniffing out a killer would be so much more efficient.

Redbeard had it all figured out.

He had an affinity for sticking his nose in other people’s crotches and giving them a good sniff by way of greeting. Wet nose right in the bollocks. Embarrassed the hell out of Mycroft. Redbeard would sit there on the stoop, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, waiting eagerly to investigate whomever Mycroft would bring home: friend, potential girlfriend, or business colleague. Regardless of how many times we’d scold him, he’d just sidle up and give the newcomer a big sniff right in the privates, then reject them, soundly, and return to my side, where he spent most of his time. 

Redbeard slept on my bed from the time I could remember. He grew older, his doggy breath became more pronounced; his flatulence could clear a room. That didn’t stop me from rubbing my head next to his, nuzzling his ears. Rubbing their softness against my cheek. He became incontinent. He wet my bed; I’d clean it and not tell Mummy. His eyes grew rheumy. Mycroft complained bitterly about the stench. Underneath it all, however, his smell remained, one of warm fur and dander.

My dog went blind. Sniffed his way to my side, licked my hand, my neck. Nosed my crotch, panted laboured breaths into it. He should have died there, in my lap, not in some sterile veterinary surgery. I was his home; I was his master.

Unlike my dog, I have never made a habit of judging people by sniffing their genitals. That would be a bit extreme, even for me. But Redbeard knew how to distinguish the scent of home, knew the smell of his master. Sometimes I plant my nose in John’s crotch and just breathe. He pets my hair and I wish I had a dog’s nose to categorise everything my feeble human one cannot detect. 

Right now John is snoring in the cab. Case finally solved, we’re heading home. It’s three am. We’re both exhausted and in need of some food, a shower, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. That, and sex.

It’s been seven days since our last liaison. The case was gruelling and found us keeping long hours. Research that led to nothing, trails that went cold as soon as we’d got close. An elaborate scheme to rob the elderly ended up being something rather more sinister, and by the end of it, four were arrested and John was fuming at the care -- or lack of, for that matter -- the people at Somerset Manor Elderly Care Home were receiving. He seethed during the arrests, then finally muttered something under his breath and stepped into doctor mode, directing the care staff (most of whom had nothing to do with the criminal activities) to bathe patients and treat bedsores. He finally declared that the whole place had to be shut down; he was so upset that I texted Mycroft and assured him the Care Quality Commission would be around the next day to sort out new placements for the residents. It was an emotional affair, for both of us, leaving us little time to even think about taking care of ourselves. 

It’s been six months since we’ve been together as lovers. Six months since he left Mary and moved back in, having finally come to the conclusion that we belong together. I fell in love with him all over again and this time, allowed (forced?) myself to do something about it. 

Intimacy is...difficult for me, still. I’m working on it. I had insisted on refraining from sex while on a case, but that line of thinking ended with a spectacular row. Sentiment _does_ slow me down. Emotion _does_ jeopardise success. But John is worth it. He is not a convenient body to have sex with, I remind myself. He is my partner, my friend, my lover. Maybe one day, something more. (The jury’s still out on that.)

Sometimes I am a fool. Luckily, I have friends, yes, friends, to remind me of that fact. Every relationship needs a support system, I’ve been told, and I am not so idiotic in the realm of interpersonal relations that I cannot recognise mine: the Detective Inspector, the landlady, the pathologist, and, grudgingly admitted, my brother. He’s a meddler and a nuisance but he has saved John several times over and for that I have to admit gratitude. When they give me helpful advice (yell at me), I need to take heed. Remember, Sherlock. Do not take John for granted. Ever.

John taught me to listen to my heart, to pay more careful attention to the needs of my body. I am a slow learner, but he is (usually) patient, and when he is not, it is usually because I have little experience with relationships (true) or have behaved selfishly (more often true). I must emphasise that John has not _changed_ me. If anything, he has made me _more_ me. Let Mycroft scoff at that. He is alone by choice, and I am no longer willing to live as he does. He has not loved and lost, as both John and I have. He does not know the strong bonds of friendship, of affection, outside of the ‘duty’ he feels toward me. And if he does, or has, he has not shared that information with me. I pity him, sometimes. Insufferable wanker he may be, but he is still my brother and, I suppose, he deserves someone interesting to render him a bit more human. No one looks at him the way John looks at me. No one snores against cab windows when he returns home.

Now, with the case concluded, simply being close to John like this, even with him snoring like a freight train, his head tipped back and mouth comically open, is enough to remind me of what I’d been physically missing. We’d had one frantic encounter in a hotel in Leatherhead, while we were meant to be perusing CCTV images in an office no bigger than a cupboard, but besides that, we haven’t managed a proper shag. I’ve grown to really quite like sex. But my body is exhausted, I tell myself as the cab pulls onto Baker Street. And a tired John is a grumpy John. The sex can wait.

We struggle up the stairs, out of our coats, into the bathroom, out of our clothing, and into bed. I’m not sure if John actually opened his eyes the entire time. He’s good at running on autopilot sometimes. 

We fall into bed, facing each other. John is asleep almost instantly, mouth parted against the pillow. Sometimes John’s breath smells a certain way. It’s hard to describe, really. I can’t seem to come up with appropriate metaphors or even specific adjectives to categorise it. But sometimes it smells sort of sweetish, and I get hard in a manner of seconds. Then again, sometimes his breath smells horrible (prawn cocktail crisps) and I get hard just as quickly. He hasn’t eaten anything in ages, or brushed his teeth, but his breath comforts me and I close my eyes and fall asleep smiling.

 

***

There are good ways to wake up. Waking to the smell of coffee is pleasant. Waking to a nice closed-room murder is even better. Without a doubt, however, waking to the feeling of my prick nestled between the cheeks of John’s arse is, without a doubt, my new favourite way to greet the morning (or afternoon, or early evening, or, whenever, honestly).

I prefer sleeping in the nude. I wish John would. He said something once about if he ever had to shoot an intruder in the middle of the night, he didn’t want to do it with his genitals exposed. He actually said, “with my meat and two veg flapping about,” but that’s John for you. Colourful language on that one. I’ve learned to swear quite fluently, although I don’t ever think I’ll reach his level of stringing together creative invectives. I can express filthy thoughts in bed as well as articulate the pain of stubbing my toe. “Bloody buggering fuck” really does have a nice ring to it. However, I could recite the alphabet and make John hard. (He’s got a thing for my voice.) 

John’s still asleep, and I’m comfortable, so I’m perfectly content to stay like this, spooned up behind him, pressing my erection into his backside. He’ll wake up soon. I always do when I’m in this position, feeling him pressed up against my back. Hello, sexy.

John has an average of ten erections during an eight-hour period of sleep. I have to admit that I’ve stayed awake all night on several occasions just to feel him harden, his penis twitching as it swells against me, only to feel it soften again a few minutes later when he wriggles and rearranges himself in the bed. He gets hot easily, says I cling. Can’t help that. Sentiment. I am more than fond of John. So is my penis. And we are both awake.

I bury my face in John’s back, smell his sleepy scent. He smells like stale deodorant and Persil non-bio detergent and skin. I can smell his breath from here, too, all sleep-sour. It doesn’t bother me at all. 

I’ve been known to rather enjoy all sorts of smells other people find off-putting. Even the most rank things (rubbish dumps) at least smell interesting. I might be one of the only people who legitimately enjoys the smell of decomposition. Granted, it depends on what is decomposing. A week-old corpse pulled from the Thames is one thing. The forest floor is another. Organic decay: rare fungi, worm excreta, damp mosses. Rotting bark. The dampness of a cellar, complete with mould. The sweet smell of fermentation: yeast on apple or grape. A glass of wine worth drinking holds a fragrant bouquet. I can appreciate the ripeness of a good, ripe cheese. The byproducts of bacteria. Sulphur compounds. Methane gas. 

Once, when I was at university, I purchased a durian from a supermarket in Chinatown. Its unusual and potent stench cleared the entire floor. I actually ate the thing. It was both disgusting and sensual.

That is not to say I cannot appreciate the more classically beautiful smells. Women’s perfume is an exercise in chemistry (and while interesting, does nothing for my libido.) I suppose in a way perfume is pleasant, but it has nothing on the damascenones that are responsible for the delicate aroma of the hybrid tea rose. Mrs. Hudson’s baking, cinnamon and sugar, are enticing. The perfume of my mother’s Crabtree and Evelyn jojoba oil hand cream comforts me.

Sometimes I sit in my brother’s private library at the Diogenes and just leaf through the pages. Breathe the dust: rotting paper, decomposing ink, billions of dead dust mites. The smell of time. Ah, time, one of the great alchemists. What is ambergris, priceless fixative for so many perfumes and colognes, but a lump of sperm whale excreta transmuted by time and the sea? 

John doesn’t usually wear aftershave. He used to, when he was dating the most boring women on the planet. He grew wary of all smelly products for awhile, and had an aversion to any woman wearing distinctive perfume. He ditched the Tom Ford _Noir_ Mary purchased for him and went back to his cheap aftershave and deodorant combination, which suits him much better. In fact, I prefer him that way, sans expensive fragrance, except when it is _my own_ pricey bespoke scent I smell on him after we’ve rubbed all over one another. That’s incredibly arousing, actually. 

I might be rutting against John’s arse. If so, I cannot help it. I’m always aroused in the mornings if I wake up next to him. He wiggles a bit, then rolls onto his back and puts his arm over his eyes. I rearrange myself so I can rest my head in his armpit.

Once I tried to reproduce John’s underarm odour. Not that he’s a particularly odorous person, because he isn’t. He passes gas an average number of times a day, his feet do not smell bad, and one application of Right Guard 3D deodorant usually lasts him the entire day, even under duress. He only truly smells unpleasant when he’s afraid. Otherwise, he smells like a normal male. (Well, then again, not exactly. I’ve shared space with plenty of ‘normal’ men in cramped public spaces who frankly stink). I can tell a lot of things from the smell of a man’s sweat.

I like John’s armpits. I like the golden hair there, how fine it is. Like a tiny tuft of lion’s mane, not a grey hair whatsoever. The skin under his arms is delicate and soft. John finds my fascination amusing. He always affectionately tells me I’m mad and then lets me nuzzle in, even when he hasn’t recently showered. 

3-methyl-2-hexenoic acid is attributed to normal body odour. It’s easy enough to create in a lab. I was not exactly successful in my attempts to replicate Eau de Jean. Seems I couldn’t make the concentration quite right. Perhaps the resulting odour was redolent of a giant-sized John who had completed a super-heavyweight boxing match three days prior and hadn’t showered since. 221B smelled rather like a boys’ changing room for nearly a week.

Afterwards, John was so adamant that our kitchen is not a proper laboratory that for my birthday he had a chemical hood installed. Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed.

I considered working on synthesising androstadienone next, but it’s so much better to take a hit right from the source. 

I guess I tickle him a bit in my snuffling, for now he is waking. 

“Morning,” he mumbles. He pushes me out of the way just enough to yawn and stretch with his arms above his head. His mouth works in a funny little circle (rabbit chewing) before he lowers an arm to rub at his face before gathering me close to him. I throw a leg over his body and continue my slow rutting. 

“Missed you,” I mumble, because it’s the truth.

“Been right here,” he mumbles back. I can feel him growing hard against my leg.

“Missed _this_ ,” I clarify. I nuzzle his neck, lick a bit. My hand has strayed to his shorts, teasing him.

“Mmm,” he agrees. “Be right back.”

I let him up so he can urinate. He doesn’t clean his teeth, but promptly returns and snuggles back into me. 

“I’m all yours,” he says, and smiles at me in that lazy way that means that I can have my wicked way with him. 

I start with kissing. There are times when we skip that, go straight to the quick and dirty, especially if we’re pressed for time or if our adrenaline is too high. Sometimes we fuck, right there on the sitting room sofa. Sometimes he bends me over the counter; sometimes he drops to his knees. But that’s not what we need right now, not after this case. Affection, yes. Fondness, always. 

Our lips meet, again and again. Kissing was always easy between us, from the very first time we closed the gap between our faces. I rub my nose over his, cradle his cheeks with my hands, lick into his mouth and let him lick into mine. Sometimes he sucks at my tongue, other times he nibbles at my lower lip. The taste of his saliva, morning breath and all, is incredibly provocative to me. We both have stubble this morning; his grows faster than mine does. I like the contrast of the smoothness of his lips. I’m half on him now, our hips moving together as I kiss him again and again until we are both panting. When I need air, I kiss his beloved temple, his earlobe, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, until he slots our mouths together again. I have to admit that I never truly found this aspect of lovemaking all that worthwhile until John. My former lovers were perfunctory kissers at best. One tried to eat my face, I’m quite sure (rather unpleasant). John has taught me a thing or two about how to do it properly, how to do this slick and intimate dance. 

Eventually our bodies demand more: John groans, and my cock leaps. Literally, it jumps against his thigh where I’ve been rubbing it. John’s boxer shorts need to come off, and now, so I break our kiss and wiggle down under the duvet and wrestle them off him. Now it’s my turn to moan, and I do, confronted with his eager prick. I could write odes to John’s penis. I love thinking about it, sometimes, how it hangs there, soft and quiescent while John goes about his daily business, all tucked in. I love to watch it expand, fill with his blood, the foreskin retract, the glans, red and glossy, protrude. Observe how it leaks, how it (not just a body part, no; John, always John, the man entire) craves my touch, my mouth, my arse. He is only of average proportions, perfect for my mouth. He’s not so big as to cause me discomfort when I sink down on him, or so small I cannot feel the delight as I stretch to take him in. Now that I’m under the duvet, my face so close to his groin, I can smell him. Not the freshly showered John, the one whose skin tastes of soap (which is in itself delightful), but the dirty John, the one who hasn’t showered in a day. He smells like a man should smell, primitive, spicy, yeasty, musky, _unclean_ \-- oh God.

Some would describe John as an angry, uptight little man. He’s not. Well, ‘little’, maybe, in a sense that he’s shorter than the average male. He can get angry, and sometimes is uptight, but on the whole, John is many different things simultaneously. My personal man-sized jumble of paradoxes. If there is any part of John that is uptight, that would be his arsehole. For as broad as he claimed his sexual repertoire to be, the man just can’t seem to relax enough for me to easily penetrate him with my penis without getting him a bit drunk beforehand. Even then it takes a significant amount of preparation. I think he has a biologically stubborn anus. It’s all fine, as I actually prefer it the other way around. 

That’s not to say he doesn’t like anal play, however. He does. Quite a bit, as it turns out. I am rather dexterous with my fingers, and talking isn’t all my tongue is good for.

Our first sexual encounters were fumbling and awkward and so full of emotion I nearly wept on several occasions. Did on one, actually. It was embarrassing and raw and horribly confusing.

We had years of issues to work out, and neither of us is particularly good at discussing complicated emotional things. We spent hours just tangled together, breathing each other’s air, touching just to remind ourselves we were still there. I hadn’t been sexually active in nearly six years, and John was still trying to deal with his long-repressed bisexuality. Yet as we always do, we eventually figured it out, what brings us pleasure, how we express our love. 

John likes just about anything in the bedroom but particularly enjoys slow and languorous fellatio that ends with my index finger teasing his hole. My favourite is when John takes me from behind, when I can feel his balls slap against mine. 

It’s a good thing that we kept the upstairs room. I’ve been told I make quite a lot of noise while being enthusiastically buggered by the most attentive lover in London. 

I’m dripping now. I can feel it, an overwhelming need to consume, to ingest. It’s probably not at all normal, downright kinky even, but John has never complained about my idiosyncrasies in bed so I kick off the duvet, haul him over, crawl over his back. “Going to taste you,” I whisper to him, just so I can see the gooseflesh rise on his skin. It does, and I kiss it as I crawl down him.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he mutters into his pillow. He’d better not choose this moment to have a crisis about cleanliness. Don’t you see, John? I want all of you. The parts you would give to no one else out of consideration or embarrassment. He understands. I know he does, and he yields to my touch, concedes to my kink.

John has the most beautiful buttocks. My hands fit right over them. I like to squeeze and knead them a bit, run my palms over the tiny, translucent hairs on them, before gently parting his cheeks. Ah, yes. Here, John’s hair is like that under his arms, but curlier. Bending to him, I take a cue from Redbeard and nuzzle his cleft with my nose and he lets out a breathy laugh. (Yes, there is joy in this act). I can breathe on him like this, just warm him up a bit, watch his tight hole clench a bit. Relax, John. Let me love you.

I start with the flat of my tongue, a slow licking. His smooth skin is so hot on my tongue, hotter than his penis even, that forbidden little part. None of his female lovers did this for him, I’m positive, and it gives me a thrill of pleasure to know I can fulfill him in ways that no one has before. The first time I did it he squirmed and wriggled and begged, asked me to stop, and then berated me for doing so. I actually brought him off like that, his arse in the air as he fucked his own fist. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he swore, after. “That should be illegal.” I was going to elucidate to him prior laws concerning homosexual acts but was quickly distracted by his own capable mouth returning the favour.

No one taught me this particular skill, analingus, unless you count my imagination and that one time I decided to try it (ages ago) just to see if my finely-tuned senses would accept or reject the act. I was ambivalent, it turned out. Then I met a perfectly average-looking man whose hair was going grey prematurely and who had a penchant for bad jumpers. John is as far from average as one can be, as it turns out. He’s got a temper and a quick wit that leans toward innuendo, and while he may dress like my father he likes to live dangerously. Under all that everyman exterior lies a man who enjoys walking the fine lines of life. I deduced it straight away: John wants (needs?) a bit of dirty sex. 

There are things I don’t tell John. Things that John would say, “bit not good, Sherlock.” Things that he doesn’t really want to know. Not really. I’ve made a promise not to lie to him, not like I had to before, but sometimes I lie by omission. It’s better that way.

Sometimes I lie on the sofa, thinking, with my hands on my chest, fingers steepled under my nose. I sometimes only pretend to wash my hands, after. Then later, I lie on the sofa that way, thinking, after we’ve had sex, after I’ve had my hands on his cock, in his mouth, up his arse. They have a particular smell afterward. I think about the compounds that create that heady aroma. It’s a ripe smell, a very human smell, of sex, semen, sweat, and shit. Us. Together. 

I don’t know the exact physiological mechanism by which it works. A kinky cerebral switchboard operator, redirecting the nerve signals from unpleasant odour to fragrant bouquet. Sexual attraction is another alchemist, and a perverse one at that, transmuting the unpalatable to the divine. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

I love it.

It’s as if his body were made to turn mine on, to inflame me, entice me. Even before we were lovers, though, John woke something up inside me, something long dead, repressed, locked behind iron doors. He reminded me that I was deserving of love after all, of friendship, loyalty, trust and kindness. Turns out my libido is amplified by emotional attachment. 

I can tell him with words, but I find it easier to tell him this way, to show him how much he affects me, body and mind. So I lavish my attention between his cheeks, very slowly licking him before applying my entire mouth to kiss his anus like I would his mouth. I run the tip of my tongue around the rim, listen to him sigh. I fuck him with as much of my tongue as I can, tasting him, filling my mouth and nose with his scent. I press my tongue against his perineum, worrying that tight skin. Slowly, he relaxes. That beloved ring of muscle begins to kiss back, twitching against my tongue. If I push inside, John will moan. 

Eventually my jaw gets sore. I sit back on my heels to wipe my mouth (I’m a mess) and give myself a few tugs. John lies there, head to the side, eyes closed smiling to himself. “God that’s good,” he says half into his pillow. I can see where I’d been holding him open, prints of my hands on the pale skin of his arse. 

“More?” I ask, eyeing his testicles which are currently squashed against the mattress. God, I love those too. Just as John’s arse has a particular smell, so does his scrotum, which is really quite delightful. It’s nearly a Pavlovian response. I want to suck both of them right into my mouth. I’m sure I could. 

“Mmm. Finger?” His eyes are still closed, but he rolls over, scooches up on the bed until he’s semi-reclining against the headboard, and spreads his legs so I can settle between them. He looks so young, so handsome. He’s not even embarrassed to ask for what he wants anymore. And I am more than happy to oblige. He’s so wet from my mouth, but he responds best with a bit of lubricant, so I reach over and fumble in the nightstand drawer for my favourite lubricant for oral sex -- sweet almond oil. It has a pleasant smell and blends with John’s body chemistry perfectly, not masking his natural odours but rather blending with them harmoniously. I use one hand to part his cheeks again, and drizzle some oil directly on his anus, where it shimmers before sliding down. 

I cannot resist -- back at it I go, with my whole mouth. I nibble, suck, swipe my tongue around until John wiggles and says my name in a way that tells me to hurry it up. Be patient, John. Let me be thorough. I am enjoying myself. Immensely. I know he wants more, but I am content to tease his rim for a while, fucking him with my tongue before I use my fingers.

It would take me ages to get him all loose and relaxed for actual penetrative sex like this. I have trained myself to relax nearly on command now, allowing myself to be opened with just a few touches and a little slick. Our cocks are even perfect for what we enjoy when we do have penetrative sex: mine is longer than John’s, but more slender, so he doesn’t have to stretch as much, while John’s is a full inch shorter but heftier in girth, making me feel so tight and full, just the way I like it. John would much prefer my fingers, however; he loves prostate stimulation, so I give him one final lick before teasing him with the tip of my index finger, enjoying the texture of his slippery pucker against my fingertip before easing in. I never tire of watching my fingers slip inside him, perhaps even more so than watching him take my cock. My penis is usually hidden behind clothes, but my hands are within my sight nearly always, and I sometimes look at them and remember watching his anus stretch around then, the taut pink skin against the paleness of my fingers. 

I’ve learned the perfect depth, and usually one finger is all he needs, but this morning I’m going to dare two. He’s taken himself in hand, so I take a moment to share my oil, pouring some in his palm and watching it run down his shaft as he spreads it over the crown. He plays with his foreskin, pulling up and then pushing down again. I’m sitting between his legs, and I can feel the soft hair on his legs against my own. 

He opens his eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, words that make my chest ache. No, John. We’re beautiful. This, us, together. I use the moment to push my middle finger in, too, and he groans and arches, his hand moving faster over himself. I move my hand so I can press his perineum with my thumb. The smell of sex is heady.

We’re not particularly talkative this morning. Sometimes I can’t shut up, and other times John spends a considerable time uttering blasphemous curses to a God he doesn’t even really believe in anymore. He’s grunting now because we’re working, as usual, in tandem: he’s pulling his cock as I’m fucking his arse with my fingers, for I am fucking him now, watching all the while as my top-button-always-buttoned lover sweats for me. I want to put us together, wrap our cocks in my hand and rub against him, but I also want to come inside him. 

“Sherlock,” John warns. “I’m going to come so soon. God. Was dreaming, you know. When you woke me up.”

“Tell me about it,” I whisper, and curl my fingers up.

“We were in that hotel, with the surveillance…” he pants out, between thrusts.

“Hmm, go on...” I murmur against his skin as I bend down to get closer to him, maybe mouth at his testicles a bit; they’re drawing up, so tight and full, his legs are beginning to shake. 

“You and me...we were on the desk together, and I was in you, your legs were round my waist, we were fucking, completely going for it, and…”

I press my thumb more firmly against his perineum and inhale deeply. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, _dothatagain_... and then I looked and the CCTV was, the CCTV was showing…” 

My own prick is aching, but I know how I want to come, and I want John to go first. He is nearly there. I can tell by his respirations, the way he makes little “uh” noises when I press into him. 

“The CCTV was what, John? Tell me.”

His legs are shaking. “We were...being broadcast...oh God...live on BBC News...everyone could see…”

That’s it. John groans, a full-throated thing, and comes. I love to watch him spurt, to see the ejaculate fly from the tiny slit of his penis and land across his hand, chest, and stomach. I can’t keep my own groan in any longer, and I try to keep my fingers still as his muscles contract around them. Overstimulation makes John very uncomfortable, and I want to give him this, a moment where is relaxed and sated. 

“You,” he pants. “Oh, you too. Please.”

I gently remove my fingers from him, I fumble for the oil, and turn him over so I can have better access to that beautiful backside. I have to be careful with this because if I am too enthusiastic I’ll ram my cock right into him, and he trusts me not to hurt him. I pour more oil over his cleft and slot myself in so that I rub just between his cheeks, against that loosened hole. I know I might be smothering him, but it’s not going to take long. I kiss his shoulderblades, run my hands over his arms and grab at his hands a moment, linking our fingers together, my large ones over his small. Moving my hips slowly, I create enough friction to build an orgasm rather quickly. Panting into his neck, I focus on the pleasure, on the tightness in my groin and slipperiness of my cock against the sparse hair between his cheeks. I’m so close, my love.

I’ve been breathing hard, so I close my mouth to swallow and wet my lips and I taste him there, taste his arse on my face and that’s it, I’m off. 

It’s a scramble into the position I want and John knows, he always knows, and he pushes his backside into the air and I part his cheeks with one hand and aim with the other. My cockhead dips right into him, where he’s still loose, not all the way, not even past the corona, but it’s enough, and I make it just in time before I fill him full, orgasm contractions that roll through me like waves.

“I feel you,” I hear him say. “I can feel you coming.”

God, John.

_Fuck_

Oh.

My love.

***

 

I was seven when I ate my first oyster. Mycroft had done something of significance, but I can’t be bothered to remember what it was. What I do remember is that I was pulled away from an afternoon of collecting lichens (I had recently discovered symbiosis) and I was expected to sit in a stiffly pressed suit and _behave_ They were people my mother knew from university, mathy-type academics. She blended in well, finally in her element again, while my father made friendly conversation with other spouses who weren’t quite as brilliant as their mates. I hated events like those, even if they were far and few between. Anything that honoured my brother was awful by nature. However, it did give me an opportunity to observe. There was a woman there in a black beaded dress who held champagne in one hand and slurped down oysters on the half shell in the other. She ate three in a row. Must have been indulging, I mused. Oysters must not be a luxury she had often but had obviously acquired a taste for them somewhere. Mycroft, the lardarse, was holding court close to the dessert table, so I, on principle, avoided the entire area, even though I wanted nothing more than one of those little chocolate squares with the raspberries on top. The woman in the beaded dress took the arm of a man too old for her and disappeared into the crowd. 

One look at Mycroft spurred me into action. I took an oyster from their impressive display on ice and carried it carefully back to the table where we had been seated (everyone had gone about mingling. Boring.) Upon further investigation, I found the oyster looked horribly revolting, which meant it was decidedly _not boring_. It lay there wetly, a gleaming blob of greyish muscle in a pearlescent cradle. I remember sniffing it. Barely an odour there, salty, perhaps. I poked it with my finger, chased it around its shell. 

I knew little about oysters. I knew it was a bivalve, a filter feeder, could produce pearls (valuable). I knew its little slimy body fed on plankton, and I knew about plankton because I had read about the mighty humpback whale in one of my father’s National Geographic magazines. I remember thinking that Mycroft could eat a whale, but he could never gulp down an oyster with the grace of the woman in the black dress.

Carefully, I raised the oyster to my lips and did my best to slurp it down in one go, like the woman in the black dress. It made it halfway down my oesophagus before it came back up again. Mortified, I held it in my mouth. I would not spit it out; I would not gag or vomit. I breathed through my nose, holding the little lump of flesh on my tongue. And something happened. Something marvelous. It was all there, the sea, silt, and salt. 

I swallowed it like a dirty secret. 

Then I ate three more.

The next time we visited the ocean, I spent hours sampling seawater, holding the brine of tidepools (an entire microscopic ecosystem) in my mouth. Mycroft said I was mental. Father warned me of parasites. Mother bought a selection of flavoured salts, taught me how to season food. “He just has a sophisticated palate,” I heard her tell my father. “At least it won’t rot his teeth.”

The first time I performed oral sex on a woman I thought of the oyster. 

I remember the oyster more fondly.

***

“What are you thinking about?” asks John, who has been idly toying with the hair below my navel as we lie on our backs, catching our breath. I love this time, when I am sated and lazy. It doesn't last long, this peace, this stillness in my head, but I’ve learned to enjoy it when I can.

“Bivalves,” I reply. “Oysters. Do you like oysters?” 

“Not particularly,” John replies. “Do you?”

I have to think about this, remember my brother lording over the dessert table and my success at eating the slimy thing. I would have preferred the chocolate, enjoyed it melting on my tongue, the balance between the bitterness of the cocoa and richness of the butter. The sensuality of it. But the oyster was sensual in its own way; it was then an intellectual triumph, my mind’s mastery of the transport. 

“Chocolate is also delicious,” I say back. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re making euphemisms about my arse.”

What? My brows draw together as I make some noncommittal noise. Am I? I’m not sure. His entire body is a feast. I delight in all of it, to be honest. 

“You really enjoy it, don’t you, you kinky bastard. Kissing me. _There_.” The moment is over; he’s buttoned-up again. He’s not blushing, but close.

“Rimming,” I say, drawing the word the word out in my deepest register. Yes, John. I do, without question. 

“Yeah. That. _Rimming_.” He copies my voice on the last word. (He’s getting quite good at affecting my voice, actually. It’s rather comical). He pets at me a bit more, his fingers in my pubic hair, which has become rather crusty. “Shower?” He asks. “Come on. I’ll do your back. Then, a nice hot meal. And later?” He elbows me a bit. “I’ll do _you_.”

It sounds lovely, to be honest. 

Suddenly struck with sentiment, I scoot down and bury my head in his lap. He pets my head. 

I breathe him in. I _know_ him. He is my home; he is my master.


End file.
